OUTER BANKS SET – CHARLESTON, SC – EARLY MORNING — JUNE 2019

It's barely sunrise and humidity already clings to theadoras skin like a natural shine as she adjusts the straps of her backpack and stares at the trailers lined up like dominoes. somewhere behind one of them, someone calls "background!" and a golf cart zips by carrying lighting equipment and two girls in crop tops and cutoffs.

thea wonders if she should already be in costume. her hands are clenched in the hem of her sweatshirt—oversized, faded, probably stolen from joe keery's guest room. she hadn't eaten breakfast or spoken to anyone on the flight. she hadn't really slept, either. not since the judge signed her emancipation papers nearly two weeks ago.

and now she's here, on her own. for real.

someone walks past and does a double take. it's jonas, one of the PAs, mid-to-late forties, an iced coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other. his eyes widen like he recognizes her. "hey! max, right?"

thea nods; her voice is caught in her throat. she doesn't know how to answer to a new name yet.

"great! you're actually in the first scene we're blocking this morning. they've got hair and makeup in trailer six—that way." he points without waiting for her to respond, already turning to shout something into his headset.

thea walks slowly, eyes on the gravel. the trailer doors are all marked with taped-on labels—SARAH, JJ, JOHN B, KIARA, and finally: MAXINE.

she stares at it. her name—not theadora james, not "anne's meal ticket" or "stranger things girl"—just max. she exhales and opens the door to the right, labeled HAIR & MAKEUP.

inside madelyn cline is already in the makeup chair, bare-faced and eating yogurt straight from the container. she glances up, grinning. "i knew you'd get it!"

thea shrugs out of her sweatshirt and nods. "yeah. max."

madelyn studies her for a second longer, then pats the chair beside her. "sit. you nervous?"

thea freezes. she's not used to people asking her that, let alone expecting an answer. "a little," she finally says.

madelyn offers her spoon. "good. means you care."

they sit in silence while makeup begins brushing foundation over thea's cheeks, tucking her dark roots into golden waves. from behind the mirror madelyn's reflection gives her a look. not pity. not curiosity. just...recognition. "you're gonna be fine," she says. "seriously. you've got that thing."

thea wants to ask what thing, but doesn't. instead she just nods, tugs at the frayed end of her shorts and tries to believe that she belongs here. that she's more than what she left behind.

when they call her to set, she follows the cables and camera rigs like stepping stones. she hits her mark. she listens. she waits for action.

and then, when the camera rolls, maxine pierce breathes for the very first time.

⸻

JUNE 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

Those first few weeks of filming are brutal. thea had never been so hot, so sweaty, so covered in bug bites. but she also hadn't felt this much like herself in years.

the cast had been chaos from the start. everyone was loud and kind and fast-talking, like they'd all knows each other in a past life. theadoras felt out of place in the beginning, like that kid at summer camp who showed up a week late when everyone had already established their groups.

she'd kept her distance at first. not because she didn't like them — she did, too much. and that scared her, the thought of letting these people too close.

but madison noticed. she always did, something thea would be soon to learn. "hey," she'd said one afternoon, plopping beside the teen on the dock during a break between takes. "you gonna keep pretending not to like us or you gonna come swim?"

theadora glanced over, goosebumps rising at the mere thought of putting on a bathing suit. "i don't swim."

"cool." madison shrugged. "you can just keep sitting on the edge and making fun of us, then."

so she did.

⸻

LATE JUNE 2019 — CHARLESTON SC

Theadora had come to charleston with everything she owned stuffed in two suitcases and a legal document in her backpack stating she no longer belongs to anyone.

that first week of filming felt like someone else's life. she's barely fourteen, fresh off the courthouse steps and already pretending to be someone else again. maxine pierce is bold, fiery, the kind of girl who steals boats and lifts wallets without blinking. theadora is far quieter than that — she flinches when people talk too loud and forgets to breathe between takes, but no one seems to notice.

the cast is older, louder, effortlessly cool in the way that makes thea want to both belong and disappear at the same time. jd calls her kid from day one and ruffles her hair like an annoying older brother. madelyn lets her borrow sweatshirts when the wardrobe trailer is too cold and madison always shares her extra gum.

but they don't know anything, not really.

they don't know about the overdose, about anne on the kitchen floor, lips blue and body cold but not cold enough. they don't know about the sleepless nights or headlines that called her the starlet with a secret. they don't ask about court or the custody offer from taylor she'd turned down with shaking hands. they just let her be.

and for the first time, theadora doesn't have to lie about bruises or explain why her phone is always on silent. no one here knows who her mother is or tells her how lucky she is to be here. she's just there, and welcomed.

the feeling is so rare that theadora perches on the edge of the couch delicately, like it might disappear from underneath her. she's wearing flannel pajama shorts and an old descendants crew shirt, sleeves chewed at the hem. her hair is still damp from the shower and her skin smells like hotel soap.

across the room, madelyn cline is microwaving leftover thai food while madison bailey digs through a cabinet for wine glasses. there's a easy rhythm of comfort between them and theadora watches it like a scene she hasn't been cast in. "you like pad thai?" cline calls without looking.

thea shrugs. "i think so."

"you'll like this one," madison says, setting down a bowl and sliding into the armchair across from her. "it's from that place down the street. i've eaten it for dinner three nights in a row."

thea doesn't say she hasn't eaten a real dinner in weeks. she just nods, carefully twisting the string of her hoodie around one finger.

madelyn flops down beside her a minute later, passing her a bowl and pair of chopsticks. "you were good today," she says. "on set. really good."

thea looks down, mumbling, "thanks."

"no, seriously," bailey adds. "you've got presence. like—people watch you."

thea smiles but it's thin. "kind of the job, isn't it?"

madelyn tips her head. "yeah. but some people do the job, and some people are the job. you're the second one." the compliment sits heavy in thea's chest. not bad—just unfamiliar.

they eat in a patch of silence, broken only by the clink of forks and quiet hum of the air conditioner until madison finally leans forward. "can i ask you something?"

theadora stiffens. "Sure."

"you, like...live alone, right? that's what your agent told ours. you're really on your own?"

thea doesn't lie, not anymore. it's too exhausting.
"yeah. i got emancipated a few weeks ago and moved out here right after." that's all she offers. no further explanation, just the facts. the truth.

madelyn blinks. "holy shit. at fourteen?"

"i'd been couch hopping for years anyway." theadora shrugs. "it was just paperwork, really."

madison whistles low under her breath. "damn. that's hardcore."

theadora laughs but it comes out dry and a little shaky. "it's not brave or anything. i just...didn't wanna die in that house." the silence that follows isn't awkward. it's something softer. realer.

madelyn gently nudges her foot under the blanket. "well, fyi, our couch is cursed. you fall asleep on it once and you're family. that's the rule."

madison raises her chopsticks like a toast. "you're stuck with us now."

thea looks at them—these two girls, older but not intimidating, cool but not cruel. girls who see her, not her résumé or her baggage. she looks at them and something eases in her ribs. "okay," she says finally. "i've been stuck worse."

they all laugh and for the first time in months theadora doesn't feel like she's performing. just...held.

⸻

LATE JUNE 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

it'd been eleven days since their last conversation and taylor hadn't called. not once.

theadora pretended it didn't bother her. she'd started filming in south carolina; stayed late on set, nodded through costume fittings, ran lines with anyone who asked. she kept busy. kept tired. kept from thinking too long about the ache in her chest that had nothing to do with homesickness and everything to do with the pit she'd carved for herself.

but today was a rare day off. no call sheet, no pickups. just thea, alone in her trailer, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching the sun crawl slowly across the tin ceiling.

she opens instagram. taylor had posted that morning — a blurry polaroid of a skyline, tagged #loversessions. nothing directed at her. no likes from her. no trace of their argument in the comments, the caption, the curated glow of it all.

theadora closed the app. she hated how much she missed her, how easy it had been to snap that morning on the phone. how heavy it felt now, days later, the words still hanging in the air like broken glass. taylor had just wanted to help, but help felt like control. like charity. like replacing something thea wasn't ready to admit was gone.

she stares at her phone for a while, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. then she opens the notes app instead.

Draft message — never sent:
i'm really sorry i said all that. i'm not mad at you. i'm just...tired and scared but i know that's not your fault. i miss you. that's all.

she closes the app but doesn't delete it. just slides the phone under her pillow and curls inward.

that night thea dreams of her old street. her front porch light blinking in the dark. a warm kitchen that no longer exists. and taylor's voice calling her name from somewhere just out of reach.

when she woke, she didn't cry. just got dressed, packed her bag, and went back to work — still waiting for the day that apology would feel less like weakness and more like peace.

⸻

JULY 9TH, 2019 — CHARLESTON, SC

It started with a twitter notification. then three, then thirty-two.

by noon, her name was trending:
#TheadoraJames #FreeAtFourteen

thea stood in the corner of the maddie's shared apartment's bathroom, knees pulled up to her chest, thumb scrolling numbly through headline after headline. each one is sharper than the last.

"Theadora James Emancipated at 14—Teen Actress Fights for Freedom From Troubled Home"
"EXCLUSIVE: Inside Theadora's Quiet Court Battle"
"Why This Child Star Walked Away From Her Mother Forever"
"Shocking New Details About Theadora James' Family Life"

she blinked. read them again. and again, like repetition might dull the blade.

the part that made her stomach turn wasn't just what they were saying—it was that someone had leaked it. the court papers, the hospital records, the overdose. someone—maybe a clerk, maybe a reporter with too much time and no soul—had let it all spill out like warm blood on a cold sidewalk.

and the worst part? people didn't just read it. they reacted to it.

@strangertheories: "Wait. She walked in and found her mom overdosing?? That's nightmare fuel."
@tvgrlsunite: "i was still learning algebra at 14 and she was petitioning to be legally ALONE???"
@user5618: "why tf did no adult step in? why didn't her famous friends HELP HER???"

a knot forms in her throat and she tosses her phone across the tile. It hits the shower wall with a sickening crack. somewhere down the hall her roommate's dog starts barking; theadora doesn't move.

her emancipation was never supposed to be public. that was the entire point—to quietly cut ties, file the paperwork, pack what little she had and start over. no more secrets, no more walking on eggshells. no more pretending.

she had dreamed of freedom feeling like air, like light. like driving down the pacific coast highway with the windows down and no one to report to.
instead it feels like drowning.

now everyone knows. every stranger, every classmate she'd ever known, every interviewer waiting to turn her pain into a soundbite. thea pulls her knees tighter into her chest and buries her face in the crook of her arms.

she'd never felt more seen, and she'd never hated it more.

⸻

JULY 11TH, 2019 — ON SET, CHARELSTON, SC

theadora hadn't spoken much since the leak. not to taylor, not to the press. not even to her castmates, who tiptoed around her like she might snap in half.

her phone buzzes for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Taylor Swift
You okay?
I'm so sorry, Thee. I'm trying to get your name off Twitter but it's everywhere.
Can I come visit?

it's their first contact since the argument. thea lets the screen go dark.

they're halfway through a scene when the director calls cut. "thea, you okay?"

she nods. "fine." liar. she was not fine, hadn't been since the first article dropped and the internet turned her childhood into clickbait.

some production assistant left a copy of variety lying around. she didn't mean to see it. she just... caught it out of the corner of an eye.

it was on page twelve; a black-and-white photo of her in court, wide-eyed and alone in a hoodie three sizes too big.

Teen Star's Mother Overdosed While Actress Was At Audition

she hated that word. actress. like she auditioned for this—any of it. like she'd wanted to grow up learning how to cover bruises with concealer and smile while someone snapped photos through the crack of her front gate.

"thea?" someone speaks gently behind her. the teen turns to see madelyn holding a water bottle in one hand and a soft, uncertain expression in the other. "you didn't come to dinner last night," she says quietly. theadora looks past her, eyes tracking a bird on a powerline. maddie sighs, then sits next to her in the grass. "you know you can talk to me, right?"

"no offense," thea says coolly, "but i've known you for all of three weeks. not really in the market for therapy from near-strangers."

madelyn doesn't flinch. "okay. then how about a friend?"

thea lets the silence stretch. somewhere nearby crew members shout call times. a mic buzzes. the air is thick with humidity and shame. "i didn't ask for this," she says finally, voice flat.

"i know."

"no, you don't. you've got...parents. a home. a life outside of the next deadline. you don't know what it's like to wake up and wonder if the people who are supposed to love you might actually ruin you."

maddie doesn't argue; just presses the cold water bottle into the younger girls palm. thea doesn't thank her, but she doesn't let go either.

⸻

The sun slips low behind the trailers, smearing the sky in streaks of honeyed gold and ash. the air shifts—still hot but quieter now, softened by the evening. crew members pack cables into crates, voices fading like the tail end of a song. nearby someone starts a bluetooth speaker and a frank ocean track drifts into the thick carolina dusk.

theadora doesn't move. her knees are pulled up to her chest, chin resting on them like it's the only stable thing she has left. her palms are still damp and the water bottle sits between them, plastic crinkled from her grip. she can feel the world keep spinning, indifferent and alive.

madelyn doesn't say anything else; just sits beside her in the grass, picking idly at a weed growing through the gravel. there's a kind of grace in that silence—like not everything has to be healed to be held.

eventually, theadora speaks. her voice comes out frayed, like thread pulled too tight. "i don't know how to be normal here."

maddie doesn't look at her, just hums low in her throat and replies, "none of us are normal. we're actors." a small pause, slight grin. "we're all a little broken. that's why we're good at this."

thea presses her forehead to her knees. "it doesn't feel like enough," she says. "pretending."

"i know." madelyn's voice is quiet. "but sometimes the pretending turns into something real. you fake brave long enough, and one day you wake up and realize you aren't faking anymore."

thea doesn't answer, just closes her eyes, the lids burning. grass tickles her legs and the smell of grilled meat wafts faintly from somewhere near base camp. someone claps a slate for the last shot of the day. it all feels far away—like she's watching her life from behind a pane of glass.

but beside her maddie's presence is warm. not heavy, not intrusive. just there. and somehow that's the part that undoes her. not the silence, not the noise. not the past, not even the headlines. it's this—being seen and not having to speak.

she turns her head slightly, just enough to see the side of madelyn's face in the gathering dusk. "why are you being nice to me?" her voice cracks on the word nice. like it's foreign, like it tastes wrong.

maddie shrugs and tosses the weed stem into the dirt. "'cause someone was nice to me once when i really didn't think i deserved it." she looks at thea, level. "turns out, that's how it starts."

they sit there until mosquitoes start coming out, until the sky turns velvet and the last light on set clicks off with a sigh. someone yells about wrap drinks. someone else offers to order pizza. there's laughter and car doors slamming. the hum of normalcy.

and theadora—thea now, maybe ruby tomorrow—just watches it all, the edge of her loneliness worn down by something she can't quite name. not friendship, not yet. but maybe the beginning of it.

later that night, she lies curled on the apartment couch, bowl of pad thai half-eaten on the coffee table, hair still damp from a too-hot shower. madison is scrolling on her phone, legs draped over the armrest. madelyn is painting her nails on the carpet, humming softly off-key. the tv plays something low and dumb in the background.

thea doesn't speak; she doesn't have to, but for the first time in a long time the silence doesn't feel like exile—it feels like rest.

she thinks of her name on the trailer door, of madelyn's voice saying, you've got that thing. she thinks of all the parts she's played and wonders if this one—this girl on this couch with a heartbeat slower than fear—might be her best yet.

she falls asleep like that. not with relief, but with something softer. a truce, a breath. a seed cracking open beneath all that grief.

maxine pierce breathes again in the morning, and so does theadora james.